Hereward, the Last of the English Part 74

"Eh?"

"Thrust out one of his eyes, and he will find his tongue."

It was done.

"Will you answer now?"

The poor wretch only howled.

"Thrust out the other."

"No, not that! Mercy: I will tell. He is gone by this four hours. How have you not met him?"

"Fool! The hoofs point onward there."

"Ay,"--and the fellow could hardly hide a grin,--"but he had shod all his horses backwards."

A storm of execration followed. They might be thrown twenty miles out of their right road by the stratagem.

"So you had seen Hereward, and would not tell. Put out his other eye,"

said Taillebois, as a vent to his own feelings.

And they turned their horses' heads, and rode back, leaving the man blind in the forest.

The day was waning now. The fog hung heavy on the treetops, and dripped upon their heads. The horses were getting tired, and slipped and stumbled in the deep clay paths. The footmen were more tired still, and, cold and hungry, straggled more and more. The horse-tracks led over an open lawn of gra.s.s and fern, with here and there an ancient thorn, and round it on three sides thick wood of oak and beech, with under copse of holly and hazel. Into that wood the horse-tracks led, by a path on which there was but room for one horse at a time.

"Here they are at last!" cried Ivo. "I see the fresh footmarks of men, as well as horses. Push on, knights and men at-arms."

The Abbot looked at the dark, dripping wood, and meditated.

"I think that it will be as well for some of us to remain here; and, spreading our men along the woodside, prevent the escape of the villains.

_A moi, hommes d'armes!_"

"As you like. I will go in and bolt the rabbit; and you shall snap him up as he comes out."

And Ivo, who was as brave as a bull-dog, thrust his horse into the path, while the Abbot sat s.h.i.+vering outside. "Certain n.o.bles of higher rank,"

says Peter de Blois, "followed his example, not wis.h.i.+ng to rust their armor, or tear their fine clothes, in the dank copse."

The knights and men-at-arms straggled slowly into the forest, some by the path, some elsewhere, grumbling audibly at the black work before them. At last the cras.h.i.+ng of the branches died away, and all was still.

Abbot Thorold sat there upon his s.h.i.+vering horse, s.h.i.+vering himself as the cold pierced through his wet mail; and as near an hour past, and no sign of foe or friend appeared, he cursed the hour in which he took off the beautiful garments of the sanctuary to endure those of the battle-field.

He thought of a warm chamber, warm bath, warm footcloths, warm pheasant, and warm wine. He kicked his freezing iron feet in the freezing iron stirrup. He tried to blow his nose with his freezing iron hand; but dropt his handkerchief into the mud, and his horse trod on it. He tried to warble the song of Roland; but the words exploded in a cough and a sneeze.

And so dragged on the weary hours, says the chronicler, nearly all day, till the ninth hour. But never did they see coming out of the forest the men who had gone in.

A shout from his nephew, Sir Ascelin, made all turn their heads. Behind them, on the open lawn, in the throat between the woods by which they had entered, were some forty knights, galloping toward them.

"Ivo?"

"No!" almost shrieked the Abbot. "There is the white-bear banner. It is Hereward."

"There is Winter on his left," cried one. "And there, with the standard, is the accursed monk, Ra.n.a.ld of Ramsey."

And on they came, having debouched from the wood some two hundred yards off, behind a roll in the lawn, just far enough off to charge as soon as they were in line.

On they came, two deep, with lances high over their shoulders, heads and heels well down, while the green tufts flew behind them, "_A moi, hommes d'armes!_" shouted the Abbot. But too late. The French turned right and left. To form was impossible, ere the human whirlwind would be upon them.

Another half-minute and with a shout of "A bear! a bear. The Wake! the Wake!" they were struck, ridden through, hurled over, and trampled into the mud.

"I yield. Grace! I yield!" cried Thorold, struggling from under his horse; but there was no one to whom to yield. The knights' backs were fifty yards off, their right arms high in the air, striking and stabbing.

The battle was "_a l'outrance_." There was no quarter given that day.

"And he that came live out thereof Was he that ran away."

The Abbot tried to make for the wood, but ere he could gain it, the knights had turned, and one rode straight at him, throwing away a broken lance, and drawing his sword.

Abbot Thorold may not have been the coward which Peter of Blois would have him, over and above being the bully which all men would have him; but if so, even a worm will turn; and so did the Abbot: he drew sword from thigh, got well under his s.h.i.+eld, his left foot forward, and struck one blow for his life, and at the right place,--his foe's bare knee.

But he had to do with a warier man than himself. There was a quick jerk of the rein; the horse swerved round, right upon him, and knocked him head over heels; while his blow went into empty air.

"Yield or die!" cried the knight, leaping from his horse, and kneeling on his head.

"I am a man of G.o.d, an abbot, churchman, Thorold."

"Man of all the devils!" and the knight lugged him up, and bound his arms behind him with the abbot's own belt.

"Ahoi! Here! I have caught a fish. I have got the Golden Borough in my purse!" roared he. "How much has St. Peter gained since we borrowed of him last, Abbot? He will have to pay out the silver pennies bonnily, if he wishes to get back thee."

"Blaspheme not, G.o.dless barbarian!" Whereat the knight kicked him.

"And you have Thorold the scoundrel, Winter?" cried Hereward, galloping up. "And we have three or four more dainty French knights, and a viscount of I know not where among them. This is a good day's work. Now for Ivo and his tail."

And the Abbot, with four or five more prisoners, were hoisted on to their own horses, tied firmly, and led away into the forest path.

"Do not leave a wounded man to die," cried a knight who lay on the lawn.

"Never we. I will come back and put you out of your pain," quoth some one.

"Siward! Siward Le Blanc! Are you in this meinie?" cried the knight in French.

"That am I. Who calls?"

"For G.o.d's sake save him!" cried Thorold. "He is my own nephew, and I will pay--"

"You will need all your money for yourself," said Siward the White, riding back.

"Are you Sir Ascelin of Ghent?"